


The Journey

by potterhead25



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alone, Angst, Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Hogwarts Express, Hogwarts Second Year, Sad, lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8552200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterhead25/pseuds/potterhead25
Summary: Ever wondered what Hermione Granger did during her journey aboard the Hogwarts Express when the boys couldn't get to the platform at the start of her second year?





	

‘Hullo Hermione! Had a good holiday?’ Hermione turned around to a round faced boy, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Hi Neville! Yes it was lovely, though I was so anxious to get back to school! We’re going to study Gilderoy Lockhart’s books! Isn’t that exciting, all those adventures he’s had? Of course, I read all the books over the holidays. Did you know--

‘Hermione that’s the last call, we need to get on the train now,’ said Neville. He went over and kissed an old lady with a stuffed vulture on her hat and a red handbag, before he joined her at the entrance to the carriage. 

‘Oh Neville, wait. Have you seen Harry and Ron anywhere? I haven’t been able to spot them. I’m sure I can see Ron’s family somewhere back there, but --

Before she could finish, the door behind her snapped shut and the train lurched into motion. Hermione rounded and pushed herself to the window. Families began to wave their children goodbye, exchanging final kisses and shouts of love and luck. Hermione waved back at her parent's, right at the back of the throng. She could tell her mother had tears in her eyes, and they weren’t due to the smoke from the engine. 

She spotted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They were waving too before Mrs. Weasley’s face broke into a frown and her eyes began to scan the length of the compartment. Hermione saw her run to the next, still searching. Finally their eyes met and She heard Mrs. Weasley shout ‘Arthur!’ before the train rounded the corner and everybody began toward their compartments. 

She could see Neville following Seamus and Dean into their compartment with Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins. She went on ahead. In another compartment she spotted Ginny Weasley in an animated conversation with a pretty girl with dirty blonde hair and large staring eyes, a tall boy with a handsome, haughty face and a large grey cat pawing a funny looking magazine next to the blonde girl. All three of them began to laugh at something and Hermione walked on ahead. 

Where were those two boys? She was sure they wouldn’t be missing school, they’d already bought all their supplies for the year with her at Diagon Alley just the other day. Were they somewhere else, maybe in another carriage? Yes that must be it. 

She finally reached the empty compartment where she’d put her trunk. She pulled out her copy of  _ Voyages with Vampires _ and continued her reading. 

Hermione had a knack for being able to read, understand and retain the most complicated of subjects, in the noisiest of places. She remembered being at the seventh birthday party of an Emilia West, three years ago. (Emilia and Hermione used to go to the same school, they had been in the same class and they both had been the brightest minds of that class -- but they hadn’t been the best of friends. While Hermione sat at her seat reading a book she’d borrowed from the library earlier that morning, Emilia would create a ruckus in the unsupervised class. Hermione remembered the foul language and profanity that spilled from Emilia’s mouth and that was where and how she learned to ignore noise.) At the birthday party, after Hermione had given Emilia’s gift to her, she’d secluded herself in the spacious dining room of the Wests’ house where she sat finishing a book. 

Half an hour went by before the other children noticed her in there and began to come in, carrying as much noise and cake icing on their hands as they could. They knew the little girl with the big hair and large teeth didn’t care so they just milled around her, occasionally making fun of her, often blowing loud raspberries next to her. No matter how intent she was on finding out what happened next in the book, Hermione shed a tear. The little drop fell on the page of the book leaving a wet spot on the word ‘alone’. The laughing and jeering grew louder as her vision grew blurred. She could tell who the loudest was: the little Ms. West, heiress to her family’s fair fortunes and her mother’s funny cackle. And the one girl Hermione wished to see hurt more than anything at that time. 

Hermione remembered a sob leaving her lips and then a loud scream. The laughter died and then rose a cacophony of shouts of ‘what happened?’ She’d wiped her eyes and in front of her, on the floor, crying and holding the back of her head was Emilia. She wasn’t laughing anymore. Her icing-covered fingers laced through her permed hair as if searching for something and she must have found it because she let out another scream and tears began to trail her cheeks from her squished eyes. Mrs. West came running into the dining room and the other children began to shout at her, each trying to tell her their own version of the happening. Hermione saw this as the perfect opportunity to leave. She picked up her book and began heading out while the children shouted louder and louder while Mrs. West tried to see what had happened to her daughter. The one thing all of their stories had in common, was Hermione Granger.

… 

Back on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione found her ability disappointing her. The sounds from outside the compartment weren’t nearly as loud as the worst crowds she’d been in but she found herself unable to concentrate. She couldn’t remember the events of the last chapter of the book. She tried to concentrate this time, she put all of her might into it, reading one word after another, one line below another. But it was no use. The laughter, the music, the little bangs she was sure were from the Weasley twins’ compartment, all made her wish she could stop it, stop it all. Maybe she should go out and join them. But how could she? Not many people liked her. Even the other girls in her dormitory weren’t nearly as friendly with her as Harry and Ron had been. 

_ Are, _ she corrected herself.  _ They’re just in a different carriage, that’s all. _ She looked out of the window at the sprawling fields of greenery. They’d hardly travelled for a half hour, which left another six hours for the journey. 

Her mind began to wander again to the year before. She remembered how the three of them had become friends -- the fiasco with the troll. She’d truly thought she’d die that night, but she’d never expected the boys to save her. Especially not the very boy who’d made her stay in the bathroom crying that evening. 

‘You’re being silly, Hermione. They’re your best friends, they wouldn’t hurt you,’ she muttered to herself.  _ Especially Harry. _

She and Harry had both come from Muggle backgrounds, even though Harry had an entire story of legend associated with his name. He was just as new to magic as she was and she’d enjoyed having someone study with her for once, no matter how many times she had to look over their essays and homework for them. 

She remembered it had been Neville, whose lost toad was the reason she’d got to know the boys in the first place. She still remembered how fast and matter-of-factly she’d been while introducing herself to them. She’d been very nervous to tell the truth. Introducing herself to people had never been her strong suit. Somehow the one thing people seemed to notice more than anything about her had been how untamed her hair was or how large her front teeth were. She wasn’t vain, but she couldn’t fathom how her appearance was more important than her intellect, her will. She’d begun to talk as much as she could so people could focus more on answering her and talking to her than staring at her hair and commenting on it. And so she’d taken a chance with the boys. She taken a deep breath and walked right into that compartment and -- 

BANG!

A shout of laughter, sounds of shock and… was that a motor she heard? 

BANG! BANG!

A motor backfiring? In a steam locomotive? Surely not. She put the book aside and looked out of her compartment. Everybody was screaming and gathering at the windows on the other side of the train. Hermione couldn’t get a good look over the other people out the windows. Some people were cheering and some were shouting. Someone pushed past her and she stumbled over the door sill of her compartment and fell right into her seat. She readied a retort at the blonde bob of hair bouncing in front of her, standing right where she had been.

Finally she sat up straight, slid the door shut, opened her book and continued reading. She’d ask Neville at the feast if he knew what had happened just then. 

Just as she turned a page, it occurred to her that this was the very compartment where she’d seen Ron, unsuccessfully, try to change the colour of his rat. 

… 

About an hour later, the old lady on the trolley came by. ‘Anything for you dear? How about a nice pumpkin pasty?’ 

Hermione looked up from her book. ‘No, thank you, I’m not hungry.’ She attempted a smile, the kind she’d practiced so often in front of a mirror, but she was sure she failed. 

‘Are you sure, love? It is rather a long journey.’ She began to sort through one of the shelves and offered hermione two pasties. ‘Here you go. Just this once.’ Hermione sheepishly smiled and accepted just one. 

‘Oh, here you go, take it!’ the old lady chuckled, handing over the other one too. ‘Just in case your friends are hungry too.’

‘Thank you,’ Hermione murmured. The old witch went further down the carriage and Hermione absentmindedly unwrapped and nibbled on one of the pasties. She propped open her book on her lap again, then sneaking a look past the door to the compartment. Other students were meeting their friends and exchanging stories. The compartment opposite to her was now empty. She turned back to her book, nibbling on the sweets. She hadn’t turned a page.

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a book open in front of her and not read it. She was no child extraordinaire but she developed an interest in reading at a fairly young age. Her first ones had been Noddy and she loved Blyton’s work enough to keep reading her till she was seven. She began to devour book after book and her parents encouraged the habit. Soon she was reading books larger than life: Lewis, Tolkien, Carol, Dickens -- you name it and she had something to say about them. Except that no one did. No one asked her what the book she was reading was like, what did she like about it, or otherwise. This didn’t bother her much and she enjoyed the time alone with these friends, the characters coming to life word after word, page after page and she dreamed of them. She’d wondered what Mr. -- Professor, now -- Lockhart would look like before she saw him in Flourish and Blotts and the book signing. She thought he was so handsome and his nerve from his adventures made her lose her breath.

Then why wasn’t she engrossed in the book? It was gripping, with just the right amount of humor to make a captivating read. His writing was sophisticated, but impactful. It was exciting, the story. It was unnerving, what was going through her mind, it scared her. Was this what it felt like to have friends? How it felt when you were separated from them for even a while? She’d had a good holiday. She’d been a bit worried about Harry not answering any of her letters, but she’d understood his situation, especially after his recounting of what had happened with Dobby the house-elf. Her communication with Ron had been… humourous. His letters weren’t as long as the ones she’d written to both of them, but he’d been funny with his replies and the fact that he  _ did reply back _ had made her very happy. And of course there was the sad, yet somewhat funny state of Errol, the owl. She remembered having to nurse him for exhaustion for a whole three days before sending her reply back to Ron with him. The memory of it made her sad. 

_ Think happy thoughts _ .

That voice she always heard inside her mind. Was it her mother’s? She couldn’t even place it. It was a welcome interruption to her. She wasn’t one to ponder over such things for long. She was practical, “highly logical”, her mother called her. It allowed her to look at the facts past extraneous details. RIght now she knew her friends would not give up on her. You didn’t give up on friends after what she’d been through last year, what they  _ all _ had been through, especially Harry. No. She trusted them. She trusted them with all her life. She began to think of other things. Anything to soothe her.  

One memory in particular came back to her. It was scary. Perhaps scary is too extreme a word. Shocking. Yes, shocking described it perfectly. The memory made her smile. 

… 

She was nine years of age at that time, she remembered. It was a fine, sunny Sunday, the sky a beautiful blue canvas without a cloud in sight and she’d spent the day on the porch of her house. She had been leaning against the bannister of the stairs which led into the lawn that her mother had been tending to and she’d had a cup of tea turning cold next to her. She had been utterly engrossed in a book her parents had given her. She’d read books by other authors, more “serious” authors as her parents called them for her age, but this book was a gem to her. It had turned into one of her favourites: a little girl, growing up unloved in her family, who read just as much as Hermione herself did: books were their best friends and now Hermione believed this character was her best friend. The character had been very smart, very very smart from a very young age and so  _ independent! _ She’d yet to read a book where a girl was as independent as this character. And then the girl had discovered she could do things: she could move things without touching them! Just with the power of her mind! And Hermione had giggled at the thought of it. It was fantastic imagination and such a wonder for the character herself! That she now could do something no one else could! It set her apart and Hermione found herself daydreaming of the time when she would free, when she would be independent. Of course she loved her parents dearly. They loved her even more. She just wanted to make them proud, to go out in the world and be able to tell people ‘that’s  _ my  _ daughter. _ Our  _ daughter.’ She remembered turning the last page of the book and feeling a smile tug at the corner of her lips. She would definitely read it again someday. She quickly rushed back into the house and upstairs to her bedroom. She sat at her desk and pulled a pen and notebook toward and began to write her thoughts about the book. 

When she’d finished, she held up the book and read through it once. She shut the book and remembered:  _ I forgot to pick up the cup of tea!  _ She’d left it lying on the porch, anyone could trip over it, and her mother would be so angry! Her mother deplored people leaving things strewn about. She rushed downstairs to see her mother entering the house from the back door which led out to the porch and gasped. She’d probably seen it lying around unattended already! Her mother looked over to her and asked, ‘What’s the matter Hermione? Is something wrong?’

‘I forgot to pick up the cup of tea on the porch, mum. I was just going to get it to the kitchen and wash it,’ she whispered. 

Her mother had looked at her curiously before she said, ‘Hermione, I just came from out there. There’s no cup out there, dear.’ Hermione noticed that her mother’s hands were empty, just covered in a pair of dirty gloves. 

‘But…’

‘The cup’s right here, love, on the counter. You just didn’t finish your tea.’ And it was indeed: there was the cup, white with a red stripe around the rim, half filled with cold earl grey. 

‘You must have brought it her yourself and forgotten. You were so engrossed in the book!’ her mother smiled. ‘Would like me to make you a fresh cup?’

Hermione murmured, ‘No, thank you.’ She rushed up the stairs back to her room with her mother looking at her shaking her head. 

Hermione  _ knew _ she hadn’t brought the cup to the kitchen. She’d rushed straight to her room and written in her notebook. Then  _ how did the cup get to the kitchen? _ She had a wild thought.  _ Maybe… _ She saw the copy of the book she’d finished lying on top of her desk. It was illogical. Very illogical. It was very unlike her to even consider such a thing. But maybe,  _ just maybe _ … She sat down gently on her bed. She had to try. 

She concentrated. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, thinking of the book. She sat and waited, concentrated. Nothing happened. Maybe she needed to look at it? But she hadn’t been looking at the cup, she had been _thinking_ of it in the back of her mind, hadn’t she? She shook her head as if to clear her mind and concentrated again. She looked at the book, thought of it: thought of it’s name and how it felt in her hands. She pictured it lying on the desk in front of her. She imagined it lifting, hovering, and sweeping toward her and into her arms. She played the sequence over in her mind once, twice, three times. Disappointment and further confusion would follow, she was sure, if she failed. She forced herself, she forced the _book_ _to come to her_. Her lips moved, mouthing ‘come to me, please.’ She almost said said it outloud, before she noticed: _the book wasn’t on the table_. She looked down on the bed, her heart pounding inside her chest. It lay in front of her on the bed, the illustration of the little girl on the cover smiling up at her, just as a friend would.

Hermione had screamed. She’d run down, her mother rushing out and grabbing her by the shoulders trying to calm her down, try to understand what had happened. She showed her mother the book upstairs on her bed, told her what had happened, what she’d  _ done _ . Her mother tried to convince her she’d been imagining things, that the book had got to her, that it was just like what had happened with the cup earlier, but Hermione wouldn’t hear a word of it. She  _ knew _ what she saw, she knew what she’d  _ done! _ She tried to it again, standing by the door. She had to convince her mother that she wasn’t lying, that this wasn’t an overactive imagination.  _ It had happened! _ It didn’t happen another time. Her mother tried to calm her down once more. 

When her father had come from work later that evening, he didn’t believe his daughter either. He’d laughed and hugged her, calling her imagination commendable, that he was proud of her, and maybe she should write this down as a story! Hermione cried late into the night, confused and curled up on her bed, looking at the book still on the bed in adoration and a tinge of trepidation. She decided she would put this behind her, and not think about it ever again. She would be alright not mentioning it, forgetting about it, but no one, especially her parents, would call her a liar. The next day she had pretended she’d forgotten about it. Her parents accepted it as her maturity and things went on as they normally would have. 

Everything changed two years later, when Professor McGonagall, teacher of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had appeared at her doorstep in her pointed hat and sweeping bottle green robes. The letter, an entire  _ world  _ hidden from her, until now. There were more children  _ like her _ . And all the odd occurrences were explained. Every incident: Emilia West, the book, every little thing fell into place, like a large jigsaw puzzle. Her parents had a long talk with the Professor, about Hogwarts, about their daughter and how any of this was possible. And the Professor had explained the magic. She told them of how magic sometimes appeared in spurts in underage wizards and witches and that’s what had happened with their daughter. She wasn’t different. She was  _ special _ . They had been worried and doubtful to the end. Then, the Professor had  _ shown  _ them. She’d pulled out her wand, she’d made a vase float around the room, she turned the clock on the mantlepiece to a bouquet of fresh white roses which placed themselves gracefully the vase and oh, how Hermione had laughed. This was real. Magic was real. And it was happening. It was happening to her, around her. She was going to be a witch, a bright witch too, the Professor had said. The Professor seemed stern, but when she said that, she looked at Hermione and smiled. Hermione never forgot the joy she felt then. Her parents -- she turned to them. They were flabbergasted, probably wondering whether this was a large joke, a huge scheme cooked with and by their daughter perhaps? They looked at the Professor with doubt plainly written all over their face. The Professor had asked Hermione to leave the for a few minutes, so she could talk to her parents, alone. Hermione obliged. She stepped out, and went into the kitchen, trying to listen, but they were talking extremely softly, as if they knew she’d be listening. A few minutes later, her mother called out to her and Hermione went into the room again. They were all on their feet smiling down at her. She grinned back and was swept up by her father into his arms and pulled into a tight hug. She felt her mother, join in on the hug too, both whispering how sorry they were for not believing her and how proud they were of her. She was going to go to this school, she was going to be under the Professor’s and many other teachers’ tutelage and she was going to do them _ proud _ , all of them. She’d never been more happier. 

… 

Hermione snapped out of her reminiscences. She realised that the sky outside the window was dark and that they were approaching a small forest. Hogwarts wasn’t far. Perhaps she’d finally run into Harry and Ron on the platform and everything would be sorted out, or most definitely in the great hall. She could hear people rummaging around in the next compartment, pulling out robes from their trunks so they could get into their uniform -- Hermione didn’t have to worry about that, she’d changed on Platform 9 ¾. She gathered up her pasties, packed her book back into her trunk, made sure she had everything in place. She slipped her wand into her robes, looking at it with a small smile as she remembered her day at Ollivander’s when it had chosen her. 

She remembered her first visit to Diagon Alley with her parents and Professor McGonagall leading them through The Leaky Cauldron and past the wall into one of the most fascinating places Hermione had ever seen. People were very genial and kind to her in The Leaky Cauldron. Professor McGonagall, herself, was a very respected woman and Hermione knew she wanted to be just as great as her someday. In Diagon Alley, Professor McGonagall told them about the currency in the wizarding world, how they would need to go to a bank called Gringotts (a _ bank _ for wizards run by real  _ goblins _ !). They had assigned a vault for her and her money would be converted to its equivalent. Along the way, it took Hermione all her strength to keep from jumping and running into the next shop she saw. There was a shop where she would be able to buy her cauldron, her ingredients for Potions class, her parchment, instruments, scales and charts, her robes, and most important of all, her textbooks (there were real spellbooks with theories and charms and even curses which Hermione found out she would learn) and her wand, the two things she was most anxious to get to know better. They went to Flourish and Blotts and Hermione was truly in seventh heaven. Tomes and volumes of knowledge and text and Hermione would have bought every book if she could, she kept thinking. The Professor told her that Hogwarts had one of the most extensive libraries in the world, complete with a section restricted to students of and above fifth year. Arms loaded with packages and books, the Professor had asked Mr. and Mrs. Granger to go back to The Leaky Cauldron and wait for them. Hermione couldn’t help but notice how fascinated her parents were with all of these shops and their wares, that all of this was  _ real _ . They went back toward the entrance of Diagon Alley and Professor McGonagall led her toward the opposite end. As they passed by Eeylops Owl Emporium Hermione noticed a boy with dark messy hair and green eyes carrying a very pretty snowy owl and a rather large man looking down at the boy with visible adoration. For a moment she considered buying an owl for herself but realised she didn’t have enough money with her. She turned and hurried up to Professor McGonagall who strode purposefully past shoppers. A group of boys stood admiring a broomstick behind a window and she asked the Professor what was so fascinating about a silly broom. ‘What better way to travel?’ the Professor said. 

They were nearing the very last shop now which had a sign above the door that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Hermione remembered seeing a single wand lying atop a dusty cushion in the window, and inside the shop was… an archive. Dusty boxes in piles from the floor to the ceiling, a spindly chair and a fair haired man approaching them with a smile. Hermione thought she saw a little spark above him, but dismissed it. The man smiled and welcomed Professor McGonagall, who introduced him to Hermione. He had pale eyes and soft voice before he pulled out a tape measure and began taking various measurements, as she were in for a fitting at Madam Malkin’s. He explained how wands worked, how they chose the wizard or witch and how wands made at Ollivander’s were some of the finest in the world. He told her how he preferred to use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and heartstrings of dragons -- ‘ _ Dragons are real?’ _ Hermione exclaimed. ‘And a lot more,’ Professor McGonagall had said. Once he was done with her measurements he turned and began to search through rows of boxes. He pulled out one and handed a slender and elegant wand to Hermione. ‘Alder with Unicorn hair. Ten and a quarter inches. Slightly springy,’ he pronounced. She gave it a little flick, just as she remembered Professor McGonagall performing magic at her house, but nothing happened. She didn’t expect it to. The wand felt slightly… uncomfortable in her hand. There was no other way of explaining it. Mr. Ollivander took the wand back and went to another section, pulled out another wand and gave it to Hermione. ‘Ebony and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, surprisingly swishy.’ Another flick and nothing. ‘Hmm, perhaps…’ Hermione didn’t hear the rest of his sentence, he went up a ladder and pulled down another wand right from the spot where Hermione thought she’d seen a spark. ‘Ah, yes!’ He handed the wand to Hermione. She thought it was one of the prettiest wands she’d ever seen, a dark slender wood, with a little frill of vine running around the grip. ‘Vine with dragon heartstring, ten and three quarter inches, slightly yielding. A rather uncommon combination, but very powerful indeed.’ It fit her hand perfectly, as if it was made just for her and it felt warm. She couldn’t help but smile. She gave the wand a little flourish and a pretty pink flower burst out of the tip of it, floating gently in mid air. Mr. Ollivander caught it and presented it to Hermione with a smile. ‘I believe, you have a great path ahead of you, young lady!’ She took the flower and paid Mr. Ollivander the amount he asked for. He bade them farewell and Hermione asked Professor McGonagall whether she’d be able to practice spells as soon she got home. She was so excited and could hardly wait, she said. 

‘Miss Granger, it is forbidden for underage wizards and witches to use magic outside school. There is a law governed by the Ministry of Magic -- yes, there  _ is _ a Ministry  _ and _ a Minister presiding it. However, I believe you are allowed to practice a few simple spells at home away from the eyes of Muggles. After all, you aren’t attending school yet.’

It had been a wondrous day. The Professor had escorted her and her parents back out of The Leaky Cauldron to their home and discussed the details of how she would get to Hogwarts via the Hogwarts Express on the first of September (it left her Mr. and Mrs. Granger absolutely baffled that there was an entirely hidden platform at King’s Cross Station) and how the secrecy of Hermione’s nature and the knowledge of there being a wizarding world mustn’t be disclosed to other Muggles. She remembered she’d gone up to Professor McGonagall and told her how she couldn’t wait to learn from her. She remembered how Professor McGonagall smiled at her and said she couldn’t wait to have her for a student either.

Hermione hadn’t slept a wink that night. She’d been up reading her textbooks, particularly  _ Hogwarts: A History _ by Bathilda Bagshot. She was absolutely engrossed and was halfway through the book before midnight. The following day, she practiced her first spell. It was a simple spell: how to produce light in darkness. She’d been rather nervous and was worried that it wouldn’t work at all yet. 

‘ _ Lumos _ ,’ she whispered and the tip of her wand glowed with a soft, white light. It winked once and extinguished, but she ran to her mother, did it again, and it worked then too. Her mother was ecstatic. She wasn’t nervous at all, not at all shaken up that her daughter was witch, that she could perform magic and was going away to a school to learn about it and how to control it. 

That evening, her parents had taken her out for dinner in the city. They said that since her birthday would be after she went away to Hogwarts, they would be celebrating it earlier. That evening they gifted Hermione a lovely little bookbag, an elegant quill and a few rolls of crisp parchment that they said they’d bought the day before in Diagon Alley. 

‘We are going to miss you darling, be sure to write to us every week. Professor McGonagall told us that post would be sent by owl! We want to know all about how your new school is!’ They’d been so wonderfully accepting about the entire circumstance. Hermione remembered watching them wave to her on her first ride to Hogwarts. They’d cried then, but smiled and laughed too. 

… 

Hermione now stood on the platform at the station outside the village. She could see Hagrid ushering first years toward the boats, but no sign of Harry and Ron. She went along with the rest of the crowd toward a clearing where stood a long row of horseless carriages, each taking off toward the enormous castle when the carriage door was shut. She got into one of the carriages along with Ginny Weasley and a pretty girl with large, dreamy blue eyes and tangle of dirty blonde hair. They were both first years and were anxious about which house they would be sorted in. they said hellos and exchanged names after which Hermione fell silent. 

The carriages stopped at a large set of gates made of wrought iron, flanked by two columns, each with a statue of a winged boar atop it. They walked in through and into the courtyard. Still no sign of the boys. People who hadn’t been able to meet each other on the train were cheerfully greeting each other. Parvati and her sister Padma waved at her from a bit ahead and she waved back. She walked into the Entrance Hall and further into the Great Hall. Hermione believed that she would never get used to the magnificence of the room. She took a seat at the Gryffindor table. People began to filter in and once everyone was settled, Professor Dumbledore welcomed them, and Professor McGonagall escorted the first years in for the Sorting. Hermione could see Ginny, her flaming red hair instantly noticeable and the little blonde girl standing next to her with staring eyes and her mouth slightly open. They were all looking at the ceiling which was a cloudless starry sky.

Hermione didn’t much pay attention to the Sorting Hat’s song, she was more engrossed in looking at who was seated at her table. She noticed immediately that the boys weren’t there at all. She would have been able to spot Ron, a head shorter than his brothers immediately. If they weren’t here then where the devil were they?

The Sorting had begun and the hat was deftly pronouncing houses for those who wore it. Hermione cheered along with the other Weasleys when Ginny was Sorted into Gryffindor. She came and sat next to Hermione who shook her hand. The blonde girl had been sorted into Ravenclaw and had been clapping loudly too. They were good friends already, Hermione could tell. She noticed Professor Snape at the staff table. He looked livid, yet Hermione thought he looked rather pleased about something; he was hurriedly whispering something to Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore. Hermione could see McGonagall’s face turn stern, all cheerfulness of a new school year vanishing. She followed Snape out through the door behind the table, while Professor Dumbledore stood up. The Sorting Hat and the stool were taken away before he addressed them and the feast appeared. Hermione ate very little, a fact noticed by Nearly Headless Nick. She told him she didn’t feel quite well. She could hear a few whispers coursing about the table. People had noticed that the boys weren’t there either but they were smiling about it. She heard something about a car and thought of Mr. Weasley’s car that Ron had told her about at Diagon Alley. Surely they hadn’t… 

She caught Fred Weasley’s eye and he nodded at her as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. She looked back the staff table; Dumbledore was gone.

_ Oh, what have they done now? _

 

… 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first story on here. I've seen gifs and memes of Hermione playing a trumpet and doing some baking and stuff all over the internet, which was funny but I always wondered how alone she must have felt during that journey and I spun this up. At the same time, I took some liberties about putting in a bit of a backstory of Hermione before Hogwarts. I hope you enjoyed it!


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